


Sleeping Dogs

by LdotRage (ObliviousInsomniac)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Asexual Character, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mental Institutions, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, Trans Character, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6524545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliviousInsomniac/pseuds/LdotRage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Washington has never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie. So when his roommate, Epsilon, has a mental breakdown and shoots himself, he's determined to uncover the truth, even if Epsilon's father promptly has him kicked out of the fancy boarding school The Mother of Invention to Blood Gulch Remedial School. Naturally, the process is only sped up when Epsilon shows up as a ghost and Wash learns that all of his friends at the Mother of Invention are still in danger.</p><p>Meanwhile, Lavernius Tucker is known to be great at letting sleeping dogs lie. With a baby he didn't want who he's now fighting for custody of, a best friend who's on the run from his abusive father, and parents who have disowned him entirely, he really has enough on this plate. He doesn't need a roommate with nightmares and a ghostly companion who might enlist his help in saving lots of lives at any given time. Then again, when has it ever mattered what he wants?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

A month after the Epsilon incident, Wash moved out of the dorms.

It wasn’t the simplest task. As much as he hated to admit it, despite having had a full thirty-three days to get over himself, he still wasn’t ready to go back in his room. For as many great memories as he’d made there, they could never outweigh the sheer terror that hit him at the mere thought of seeing the familiar carpet, probably discolored if not ruined entirely. Logically, he knew that there was no danger, and that avoiding stressors this religiously wasn’t a good idea (or maybe that was just the Counselor rubbing off on him). But his body didn’t seem to have gotten the memo, because as soon as he even stood on the threshold, every fiber of his being began to scream desperately at him to _run, no, get out of here, get help, stop him, no_ —

Bottom line, he just wasn’t ready to go back in there. Not even for long enough to pack his bags; not even for long enough to grab a shirt and some clean boxers, as he had learned the hard way a few days ago. Kneeling in the doorway and dry-heaving for nearly an hour wasn’t exactly his dream afternoon.

Damn lucky, then, that he had a horde of overprotective friends who were just chomping at the bit to help him out.

So, in a strange sense, he didn’t really “move out” so much as he “sat on his lazy ass while his friends did all the heavy lifting”. Connie was kind enough to get a folding chair from her room across the hall, which she set up right beside the door so that Carolina could just shout “DVD player!” or “Yellow notebook!” or “Porn!” and Wash would be there to either claim the item or vehemently deny ever having even _looked at_ something so vulgar, Carolina, how could you even _think_ that?

Everyone pitched in to help—even South, which was a huge surprise: she and Wash were closer than you might think, but she wasn’t really one to volunteer for manual labor unless there were no other options. Connie, who blamed her slight stature but probably just sensed Wash’s shitty mood, dragged another chair over and plopped down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a casual display of affection that grounded him more than he cared to admit. And, even better, she stayed completely silent rather than trying to force him to talk about his feelings or whatever else—another thing he appreciated about her company. He had enough mother hens fussing over him without his best friend being one of them.

“Hey, man.” Speak of the devil. York leaned out of the room for the hundredth time, gripping the doorframe a bit too tightly to be considered casual and running his free hand through his slicked-back brown hair. “You doing okay?” Wash pressed his lips together and nodded tersely in response. York had the decency to look ashamed as he muttered “Okay, good to hear,” and fled back into the dorm immediately.

“What a square,” Connie said offhandedly as soon as he was out of earshot, carefully gauging Wash’s face for a reaction. He remained stoic.

Sighing quietly, she looked away, schooling her expression. “So.” After a long moment, she managed to collect her thoughts. “This new school of yours…?”

“Blood Gulch Remedial School,” he provided, his voice a bit raspy.

“Yeah, that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You excited?”

That, at least, was enough to choke a single dry laugh out of him. She winced at the harsh noise. “Oh, _sure._ I get the privilege of going to a school that Carolina herself referred to as ‘a cross between a dive bar and a juvie’. Truly, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Regaining her mental footing, Connie rolled her dark eyes, flicking him in the back of the head. “Yeah, but it has to be better than hanging out in the med bay all day.” Then, under her breath, she added, “Honestly, I’m surprised the Director let you stay there free of charge. After last month, I would’ve expected him to kick you onto the streets.”

The distaste in her voice was crystal clear. Wash smiled wryly. “Guess he was in a hospitable mood.”

A pause. Connie surveyed his face intently for a moment, then shifted warily in her seat. “You could probably go to court with this,” she said quietly after a minute or two. “A good lawyer could get you back in.”

“No.” The answer was curt and completely unlike him, but she somehow wasn’t surprised. “Not worth it. Can’t afford a lawyer, and I’m willing to bet he’s got at least a few on speed dial. I’d rather not get my ass dragged through the mud _and_ my wallet run through a wringer, thanks.” He hesitated before shrugging and adding nonchalantly, “Besides, I don’t want to provoke him now. Not after he finally dropped the murder charges.”

And that was that. They lapsed back into a comfortable silence, Connie twirling her sideswept hair absently between her fingers. She didn’t take her arm off of his shoulder. “Jazz CDs!” Carolina shouted from somewhere in the dorm, and Wash shouted “Mine!” back at her. They all tried to ignore the distinct lack of York and North teasing him; never before had Connie yearned for their playful ribbing like this.

“Will you at least be able to visit?” she asked eventually, brow furrowing. “If he really claims he’s doing this all for your own good, he can’t just ban you from seeing your friends, right?”

Wash shrugged again. “Dunno,” he said honestly. “I definitely don’t think he’ll want to see me back here often, although he’s taken the liberty of signing me up for daily sessions with the Counselor.” Connie winced sympathetically at his grimace. “Which I’m just ecstatic for. God, that guy’s creepy. And that bullshit he spews about controlling your emotions is about as comforting as a certain _someone_ asking the same question every two seconds.”

As if summoned by name, York popped out of the doorway a hundred-and-first time, arriving just a second too late to hear Wash’s pointed words. He deposited Wash’s gray-and-yellow messenger bag by the feet of Connie’s chair, then immediately turned to the blond with a twitching smile. “Hey, man. You still doing—”

Before he could finish his infuriating statement of misplaced worry, North swiftly stepped through the doorway and smacked him sharply upside the head. Ignoring the resulting “Hey!”, he tossed a suitcase full of familiar clothes down beside the backpack. A few orange prescription bottles clinked together in the mesh side pocket. “Bear with him, Wash,” North said; then, turning to York with a glare, he hissed, “Give him some space, man. You aren’t helping things.”

Connie shot Wash a look like she’d just seen a pig fly past the window. “This is insane. Isn’t it usually North who’s insufferably overbearing? Isn’t York supposed to be the chill one?” she demanded, gesturing wildly towards the two teens in question. “When did mom and dad switch places?”

York snorted. “Hey, I resent that. _Clearly_ North is team mom and Carolina is team dad.” He then shot a not-so-subtle hopeful look at Wash…

...who was too busy studying his shoes somberly to even notice their attempts. All three exchanged disheartened glances. This had to be at least the seventh time today that Operation: Cheer Wash Up had been an utter failure. And they had even gotten _Maine_ in on it earlier! They’d played their trump card several times, and still he remained solemn.

“Oh, would you losers cut the shit already?” South groaned melodramatically as Maine maneuvered through the doorway carrying a huge stack of boxes. It took Wash a moment to spot her—she was balanced precariously atop the boxes and seemed to have made them into an impromptu chair. She stretched, cracking her shoulders and rolling her neck, before sprawling back out like an incredibly rude princess; Maine struggled to balance his load, which swayed dangerously every time she shifted her weight. “Stop babying the new kid. Jesus.”

That finally elicited a proper Wash-like response. “I’m not a new kid!” Wash squeaked, the pitch of his voice rising several octaves. Naturally, the added humiliation of sounding like a pissed-off chipmunk only made it rise even higher. “I’ve been here since halfway through freshman year!”

Before he could embarrass himself further, Maine grunted wordlessly, and, just like that, effortlessly had everyone’s attention. He didn’t talk much, but it was in your best interest to listen on the rare occasion that he did. “He’s right,” the skyscraper of a senior muttered. “Not new.”

“Thank you!” Wash huffed.

South merely cackled, grinning widely in a way anyone could tell was bad news. “Hate to break it to you, but if you still need your boyfriend backing you up, then you’re definitely the fucking new kid, Wash.” The blond in question immediately protested, but she didn’t care enough to glean whether he was protesting being considered new or the boyfriend comment. “I mean, not even _York_ is that much of a sissy, and he’s a pretty damn big sissy, so that’s saying a lot.”

“Hey!” was York’s brilliant retort, showcasing his scathing wit. “That’s bullshit!” He shot North a pleading look with his good eye. “Back me up here, bro!”

With a snort, South quickly intervened. “Actually, I take it back. Wash, you’re off the hook. Everyone can use a little help from the gentle giant here. York is officially a bigger sissy than you, effective immediately.”

York made another vague noise of general irritation, but North just chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “No, she’s right this time, York. This makes you the kid brother of the class.”

This time, rather than grumbling, York shrieked in indignation, waving his arms in the air furiously. Drawn to the scent of conflict as always, Flowers immediately rushed to the rescue, practically skipping, with Wyoming’s sleeve in hand. “Now, York, you have to stay positive,” he admonished cheerfully; far too cheerfully for this time in the morning. “After all, we all know that ‘kid brother’ isn’t quite accurate!”

“Yes; ‘kid sister’ is much closer to the mark,” Wyoming pitched in.

“What is this, everybody-pick-on-York-day?!”

Before the argument could escalate any further, Carolina hastily cut in, brushing through the thickening crowd with ease. “Children, please!” she barked in her usual commanding tone that demanded respect. With a swipe of her hand, she batted away York’s mumbles of dissent, fixing him with a sharp look. Her fiery red hair, fading to blonde at the roots, swirled about her head as she looked rapidly between each member of the crowd. “York, stop making those ungodly noises. South, North, stop double-teaming York. Also, South, get down from there. Wyoming, stop throwing York’s masculinity into question. He can do that well enough on his own.” York hissed like a cat, but Carolina didn’t even twitch. “Connie, I have no idea what part you played, but I’m sure you played some. Stop that.”

Connie shrugged with a mutter of “Fair enough,” as Carolina bent over to place the large cardboard box in her arms onto the ground beside Wash’s chair. Wash just rolled his eyes, although there was a bit of fond amusement mixed in with the exasperation. As hard as she stared, Connie couldn’t see any trace of a smile on his face.

Onto plan B, then. She met Carolina’s eyes and nodded gravely.

Carolina returned the nod, then turned sharply on her heel. “South,” she said, hands on her hips in a clearly exaggerated nag, “I thought I told you to get down from there.”

It took South a little too long to recognize the cue, so she was just as unprepared as Wash was when, with an uncharacteristically mischievous smirk, Maine plucked her from her perch, ignoring her indignant squawk, and dropped her unceremoniously onto York. The two crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and profanity. Before he could blink, North joined them, shoved harshly into the pile by Wyoming, who then met his fate as Connie joined the fray and pushed him right down after them. With a roll of his eyes, Maine grabbed Connie by the scruff of her neck and practically threw her down on top of Wyoming. Wisely, he left Carolina the hell alone, but, as an afterthought, he did nudge Flowers onto the pile, completing his work.

That did it. A huge smile stuttered across Wash’s face seconds before he burst out laughing. Clutching his sides and doubled over, he quickly slid out of his seat and crashed onto the carpet, where he could be act as hysterically as he wanted. Immediately, the cussing and yelling from the dogpile of seniors ceased and was replaced by whooping. As they separated themselves, York and Connie exchanged victorious glances and a high-five while South, grinning, whispered “I _told_ you it would work!” to North, who was grinning just as widely. Carolina chuckled as she helped York to his feet, and even Maine cracked a smile as he placed the four boxes in his hands on top of Carolina’s box, frowning at a South-shaped dent on the top of the stack.

It may have taken them eight tries to get there, but Operation: Cheer Wash Up always succeeded in the end.

Once he’d finished getting carpet burn and leaving finger-shaped indentations on his sides, Wash straightened slightly, wiping a tear off of his cheek. “Thanks again for this,” he called up to Carolina, and she caught the double-meaning. “Really. I appreciate it a lot.” Honestly, though, his smile was sincere enough that she really felt like he should be thanking South for volunteering to start a dogpile.

Nodding to accept his gratitude, Carolina turned to Maine, who, as per the usual, was splitting his attention evenly between the rest of the group, who were busy chatting amongst themselves, and Wash. “We should get this stuff down to North’s car,” she said, and Maine simply nodded in response. Turning back to Wash, she stretched out a hand to help him up.

He took the offered hand and she pulled him to his feet. “Thanks, Boss,” he said, the nickname falling easily from his lips, which quickly formed another smile. That smile vanished just as quickly as it had appeared when he reached out and his hand only brushed against the wall. A cursory glance proved his worst fears to be true, and he groaned when he saw the simple black cane laying dejectedly on the floor. For a moment, he entertained the thought of bending over to get it himself, but a helpful jolt from his leg convinced him otherwise. “Uh,” he murmured, getting Carolina’s attention, “can you…?” Blushing profusely and gesturing in a vague direction, Wash stared pensively at his shoes, determined not to meet his friend’s eyes.

To Carolina’s credit, she didn’t make it any more awkward than it had to be. Without saying anything, without giving him a pitying look, and without even patting his shoulder condescendingly, she bent down, picked the cane up, and pressed its handle into his palm. “Thanks,” he muttered, gripping it tightly and leaning more weight on it than he probably had to as if that would alleviate the ache throbbing in his leg.

Carolina turned away and Wash let his eyes stray from his ratty tennis shoes to his leg. The wrappings were bulky and obvious under his jeans, which were comfortable around his legs but stretched tight over the bandages. He still had a while to go before he could switch to a less blatant wrap.

Thirty-three days.

That was how long it had been since his injury, according to the nurses. Really, it was a miracle he didn’t need crutches or a wheelchair. Most people weren’t in such good shape after such severe leg damage and such delayed treatment. Nonetheless, the reminder that he was now legally considered a cripple was less-than-welcome. He wondered, vaguely, how York could stand to wear that blatant eyepatch so proudly and not care about the people who stared at it and the scars spiderwebbing around it.

Thirty-three days; not that he could’ve told you. After the Epsilon incident, before the murder charges were dropped, the Director had promptly thrown him into the nearest psych ward, where the passage of time had been unbearably vague. The ward had been all blank walls and bright lights; sterile needles and crisp white sheets. Arms fastened by a straightjacket during his allotted exercise period, which occurred on seemingly random intervals and didn’t last for any set amount of time; wrists and ankles held fast to the bed with soft restraints for the rest of the time. _Two weeks,_ people told him afterwards. _You were there for two weeks._ Sixteen days, to be precise. But it had been an eternity of unceasing white fluorescence. There was no “night mode” or “day mode”; just blinding emptiness.

Now efficiently sidetracked, he wandered aimlessly, eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular. The hallway was just how he remembered it: carpet an indescribable color that no one really wanted to bother describing, wall dotted with a few doors, each with a number and two names. The walls were a non-descript gray, as were the doors, and the labelling was boring black-on-white. Simple. To-the-point. Not quite as barren as the looney bin, but lacking the sparse pastel paintings of the med bay.

Sixteen days of screaming himself hoarse and thrashing to no avail; of crying out for Epsilon until they came in and shut him up—they used drugs; held him down and forced a syringe into the crook of his elbow—unless they worried about him overdosing; then they’d just gag him, and that _couldn’t_ be legal, it just _couldn’t,_ but it wasn’t like anyone believed him—

He focused on his door ( _‘It’s not yours anymore,’_ he reminded himself). Half-closed; marked just with the number 6 and two nameplates. _David Washington,_ the first read, and he had to admit that he wasn’t really surprised no one had bothered taking his name down yet. _Epsilon Church,_ the second read, and it almost made him hurl that they hadn’t even bothered taking down that one, either.

“Wash?” York’s voice. He ignored it. Probably not talking to him.

Through the half-closed door, he could just make out a fraction of the room inside, even with the lights off. The Mother of Invention was a very high-budget boarding school, so the dorm rooms were large and extravagant, and he could just catch glimpses of the relatively elegant furniture from here. That was definitely their coffee table, with the same slight dent in the side from a rather spectacular shin jam against it. And there was the TV they’d been given, the upper side of the screen smeared with half-visible paint they’d never quite washed off entirely.

The gags were the most terrifying part about the whole thing, because they were really more like muzzles than anything, pressing his tongue down and holding his jaw closed, and it reduced his pleading and screaming to a jumble of inaudible murmurs, and he _couldn’t get help;_ he had to get someone; had to help him; had to help him before he—

Looking in there wasn’t helping; it really wasn’t. He couldn’t look away. He could see where there used to be a chair; the wreckage had been cleaned up, but, sure enough, the carpet had just been removed entirely; they hadn’t been able to clean up his roommate well enough, he supposed—

A blur of movement in his peripheral vision was all the warning he got before York strode purposefully out from behind him, swerving around his nigh-catatonic form and making a beeline for the room. Before he could panic and cry out _no, don’t go in there, don’t do it, there are people who would miss you,_ York grabbed the knob and slammed the door shut.

The movement was so sudden and loud that Wash jumped, his grip on his cane loosening dangerously. As soon as he was sure the door wouldn’t be opening again any time soon, York spun on his heel and looked Wash straight in the eye, no longer attempting to hide his worry but finally through with walking on eggshells. This time, when he fixed Wash with a concerned gaze, the sentiment wasn’t ‘I’m afraid you can’t take care of yourself’, it was ‘I’m your friend and I want to help you’, and Wash swallowed thickly as an unidentifiable emotion shot through his chest.

Neither one said a word, but York’s one steel-gray eye said everything.

This time, when a hand alighted on his shoulder in worry, he recognized the familiar warmth of North’s huge palm and barely flinched. “You ready to go, Wash?” he asked in his usual soothing baritone, clearly back to being team mom.

Wash took a moment to collect himself. _It’s over. It’s over. You’re not there anymore. You’re safe. They’re all safe._ He took a deep breath, then broke York’s gaze and turned around to inspect his belongings. A stack of five boxes was teetering just outside the door; someone had labelled them with a sharpie (one said “Books”, one said “Disks”, and the last three all said “Art Stuff”). Next to those was his old messenger bag, stuffed full of all his school supplies. Last was a single suitcase that held all of his clothes and newly-prescribed meds.

How strange it seemed that he could fit the past three years of his life into five boxes, a backpack, and a suitcase.

He glanced up. York and North were standing on either side of him, smiling quietly, North’s hand on his shoulder and York’s on top of his head. Maine was hovering wordlessly just beyond the boxes, a beacon of silent support. Carolina was leaning against the wall next to him, looking nonchalant but no doubt beating herself up again—either for not spotting the warning signs earlier or for taking two weeks to get him out of the looney bin. Connie was smiling at him knowingly in that way she did when her weird psychic powers had activated once again, and South was making a big show of not caring but watching intently through her peripherals. Florida had never stopped smiling, but it looked a bit more sincere now. Wyoming was utterly earnest and gave Wash a slow nod when their eyes met.

Thirty-three days since the incident. Thirty-three days since he’d come home to find Epsilon shaking and crying, curled up underneath the kitchen table, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pale blue hoodie. Thirty-three days since he’d tried to calm the older boy; since he had been rewarded with a blow to the leg that made him topple and a long, loud rant about _them_ and _us_ and _torture_ and _experiments_ and _remember_ ; since the bullet tearing through his thigh. Since he had watched with wide eyes as Epsilon turned the gun on himself, since he’d gasped in terror; tried to scream, but not had the energy—since begging and pleading and _don’t do it, please, I would miss you, it won’t solve anything, please_ —

Thirty-three days since he had been screaming and sobbing on the itchy carpet, his face smeared with blood and gray matter that he wished was his own, staring at the corpse of his roommate of three years.

Thirty-three days wasn’t enough for him to forget Epsilon’s words.

_They tortured us… just using us for their own benefit… experiments that no one remembers but me… I remember it all… no one believes me… don’t you understand?... I was there when it happened… don’t you remember, David?..._

_Don’t you remember?_

Casually, he brushed York’s hand off of his head, hoisting his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said simply.

David Washington didn’t remember.

But that didn’t mean he was about to just let it go.


	2. Off to a Great Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tucker and Church call each other names and everyone has really shitty luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noooo it definitely hasn't been two months since I posted the Prologue I have no idea what you're talking about  
> In all seriousness, though, the only reason my writing has any quality to it is because I always print out the chapter to proofread and then re-type the whole thing by hand, and it takes a long time, sooo... sorry about that.

Make no mistake: Tucker was more than used to Church being a fucking asshole.

After all, despite what his GPA might suggest, he wasn’t an idiot by any standards, and anyone who knew anything about the Blood Gulch student body knew that Church was the biggest asshole to ever swear explosively at ten-year-olds in _Call of Duty._ Before Tucker and he became friends, even his parents and siblings had been convinced that he was incapable of forming relationships entirely. And, well... to be honest, their friendship consisted entirely of a mutual hatred for everyone, and Tucker was still about 98% sure that Church would sell him to the devil for one twinkie.

Still, now that they had been friends for almost seven years, he was seeing the asshole side of Church less and less. Sure, Church still talked shit about everyone, friend or not, but at least he had become all bark and no bite. And, although his bark was pretty bad, his bite could be even worse sometimes. Tucker had learned that in fifth grade, back when he was the snarky black kid with shitty parents and Church was the snarky white kid with even shittier parents. Out of sheer spite, Church wrote the poem they’d been assigned for English class and offered to read it aloud, much to the teacher’s surprise and delight. He managed to rhyme “Tucker” with “motherfucker”, “cocksucker”, and “your mother” before Miss Hough could wrestle the paper out of his grip. He got suspended for two weeks and came to school afterwards with a black eye and a bad limp, courtesy of his old man, but he still insisted to this day that it had been worth it.

So, yeah. Needless to say, Tucker was accustomed to his best friend throwing him to the dogs without a second thought if it meant saving his own ass. But, at the very least, he’d thought that there was at least one place where Church actually had his back, after everything Tucker had done for him.

Apparently not.

“I hope Caboose strangles you in his sleep.”

“Suck a cock.”

It was official. Alpha Church was not, in fact, an asshole. He had transcended the realm of mere assholishness and was now a _super asshole._ A past, present, and future asshole; an asshole unconditionally. No shred of human decency left within him; just pure, unbridled _asshole._ And Tucker had proof.

“At least I have cocks to suck. You can’t hold onto your pussy for more than five fucking seconds.”

“Wow. Real classy, Tucker.”

Exhibit A: Church had waited until the last possible moment to tell Tucker that they were getting a new addition to Blue Dorm.

“Oh, and it’s classy to stick me with some fresh while you shack up with Caboose?”

“Excuse me while I go puke at the thought of that.”

Exhibit B: Church had promptly taken this opportunity to abandon Tucker in favor of Caboose, thereby damning him to being the new kid’s roomie.

“Dude, I need this place to be _kid-safe!”_

“Caboose lives next door. It’s impossible for this hellhole to be kid-safe.”

_“That’s not the point!”_

Exhibit C: Church knew _exactly_ why he didn’t want to room with some random delinquent, especially since, in his experience, “delinquent” tended to be synonymous with “violent sadist”.

So, yes, Church tended to be a selfish cock bite with no morals, but surely, _surely,_ no one, not even him, could be _that_ much of a prick. This had to be some sort of elaborate, rather dickish joke; he certainly wouldn’t put it past Church to be this petty. There was just _no way_ he could actually be _serious._

Yet here he was, packing his bags casually as if he hadn’t just fucked his best friend over. He didn’t even have the good grace to look ashamed―Tucker hadn’t really expected much better, to be honest, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t disheartening. As he stuffed video games and spare controllers into his duffel bag, Church glanced up only to be met with a glare so smoldering that he actually flinched back a little. He sighed dramatically as if he was the one getting the shaft. “Look, Sheila says this ‘David’ guy is harmless. Plus, I’ve seen a picture, and he weighs, like, two pounds. You’ll be fine.”

“Sheila thinks _Caboose_ is harmless! And Sister says he apparently got booted because he _murdered_ his old roommate!” Tucker hissed, kicking Church none-too-gently in the shoulder to punctuate his point. “Also? That’s _my fucking controller.”_

Rolling his eyes, Church pulled the offending Xbox controller out of his bag and tossed it carelessly at Tucker’s feet. “Yeah, uh-huh, as long as we’re talking about bad sources of information, let’s just remember that Sister was the one who told you Grif and Simmons were fucking.”

Tucker crossed his arms, just daring Church to contradict him. “Yeah, and she was right.”

“I will never understand why you won’t give that shit up.”

“Because it’s _true!_ They’re practically _married!”_

“Whatever!” Church rubbed his temples, halfway between disgusted and disgruntled. “If you’re gonna be mad at anyone, be mad at her! _She’s_ the one who called dibs on rooming alone!”

Bad answer. Tucker’s eyes narrowed drastically. “You’re telling me that I’m very possibly rooming with a murderer because _you, Alpha Church, the king of petty arguments,_ just _let_ Sister call dibs on the single room and _didn’t even fight her on it.”_ He slammed his fist into the wall; Church, who had expected as much, didn’t so much as twitch. “That’s no excuse!”

Church snorted. “What, you wanna be the one to get in her way?”

Tucker considered it for a second. On second thought, he could conjure up various memories of Sister lifting Grif’s fat ass with one hand and carrying him away without so much as breaking a sweat. “Okay, _fine._ Maybe that _is_ an excuse. But what I wanna know is why they’re sticking _us_ with the psycho when Red has an empty room! Explain that!”

“I don’t control the shitty decisions the school board makes!” Church shrieked, his voice degrading into a shrill squeak as it often did when he got worked up like this. “Look, you’ll be _fine!_ You aren’t gonna get stabbed again, Jesus Christ! Stop worrying like a fucking soccer mom!” As he went back to work stuffing his extra hoodies into his bag, face now redder than he probably realized, he scoffed dismissively. “I mean, shit. Chorus made you paranoid as fuck.”

 _“Of_ **_course_ ** _Chorus made me paranoid as fuck!”_ Church flinched despite himself―after all, Tucker didn’t often get this worked up over shit he said―but didn’t stop packing. “And me being paranoid has _nothing_ to do with the fact that I’m going to be sleeping in the same room as a fucking _murde_ ―”

He was cut off by a brisk knock at the door that made them both jump, not that either would admit it. Both turned to glance at the internal wall that hid the doorway from view, half-expecting one of their dormmates to burst in. When the visitor waited patiently, proving that it wasn’t any of the Reds, Sister, or Caboose, both looked expectantly at the other. Neither one moved a muscle to go answer it. After a few seconds, Tucker crossed his arms. Church glared in response. Tense silence settled heavily between them.

“...This isn’t even my room anymore.”

“I ain’t getting it.”

“Hey, I got it last time.”

“And you’re also abandoning me. Get the damn door.”

“What if it’s the Director or something?”

“I would laugh.”

Another few knocks, these ones a bit sharper and more forceful. After another cursory glance to make sure whoever it was hadn’t let themself in, they immediately returned to their staring contest of sorts. Tucker’s eyes narrowed even further so that only slivers of his eyes were visible past his eyelids. Church’s lips pulled back slightly in something that could have been either a sneer or a snarl.

“This is your problem.”

“And it’s your mess.”

“He’s your roommate.”

“You’re my roommate, too. I’m sure you two would get along great.”

“Well, if your roommate is really a fucking psychopath, then you wouldn’t want to make him angry at you, now would you? Just think about _Felix.”_

“...Wow. Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“...Too soon, man.”

“Soon, but effective.”

A third set of knocks, these hard enough to make the door rattle in its hinges. They didn’t bother looking away from each other this time. Church was too busy reclining casually, a smirk on his face, locking his arms behind his head with all of the smug satisfaction he could possibly muster up. Tucker just bared his teeth. The next knock was so strong that the deadbolt audibly strained.

“You gonna get that?” Church drawled, examining his fingernails.

After a brief moment, Tucker finally dropped the pose with a groan, heading for the door. “I hate you so goddamn much,” he grumbled, choosing to ignore Church’s victorious whoop. The knocking began anew, and he hastily shouted “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He was so irritated that he didn’t even bother to add a “Bow chicka bow wow”.

When he swung open the mouth with a falsely casual “What can I do ya for?”, shoulders tense and ready for a fight, the first thing he saw was the biggest teenager to ever squeeze himself through the narrow halls of Blue Dorm. His face was youthful and he wore a Mother of Invention sweatshirt, but he was at least six-foot-six with enough bulk to be used as a battering ram. In his arms was a towering pile of cardboard boxes. _Great,_ Tucker couldn’t help but think. _Today just keeps getting better and better._

The second thing he saw was a head of blonde hair dyed bright scarlet and a pair of intensely green eyes. This girl was tall as well, but reasonably so, although he wouldn’t call the muscular arms protruding from her sleeves “reasonable”. There was something in her eyes that was way too familiar.

In the end, what really gave it away was the distinguishable scar peeking out from her chin onto her right cheek. He remembered exactly how she’d gotten it.

_Oh shit._

Immediately, he lunged to stand fully in the doorway, grabbing both sides of the doorframe to act as a physical barrier between her and the room. **“HELLO THERE, CAROLINA CHURCH!”** he bellowed. He cloaked the telltale sounds of Church cursing and grabbing his bag by quickly adding, **“FANCY SEEING YOU HERE, OF ALL PLACES! WE HAVEN’T REALLY SEEN EACH OTHER LATELY!”**

The big guy winced at his volume, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring, but Carolina was relatively unfazed. “Tucker,” she greeted, giving him a strange look. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice the frantic footsteps scrambling against the carpet inside. “I didn’t know you went to Blood Gulch.”

Tucker chuckled nervously, his hand flying to the back of his head. In the room behind him, the bathroom door _click_ ed shut, and he let the tension drain from his body. Crisis averted. Temporarily, at least. “Yeah,” he replied, letting his volume slip down into normal territories as he released his death grip on the doorframe, “we sorta lost contact after Chu―” He gurgled, quickly turning the aborted syllable into a fake sneeze. “Since _Alpha_ ran awa―” Another unconvincing cough. He could just hear Church hissing in displeasure. “Disappeared. Since Alpha disappeared and we don’t know where he went.”

Carolina’s piercing eyes tightened into a suspicious glare, and Tucker squirmed under the intensity of her gaze. Then she softened slightly, much to his surprise. “You’re allowed to say it, you know,” she said with false levity. “We all know that Alpha ran away. Only Dad still insists he was kidnapped.”

That seemed to catch the big guy’s attention. He gave Carolina a curious glance and a sort of inquisitory grunt, but she just shook her head subtly, and he dropped it. They then both turned to stare expectantly at Tucker, who finally remembered his manners―and, more importantly, what Carolina could do to you if you kept her waiting. He hastily stepped aside and ushered them both in after a quick glance to ascertain that Church hadn’t left any damning evidence lying around.

Carolina stepped past the shitty welcome mat without question, but the big guy lingered in the doorway, fixing Tucker with a stare like that of a butcher examining his meats. Luckily, Tucker managed an easygoing grin that apparently satisfied him, because he finally ducked into the door and set down his stack of boxes.

“So,” Tucker ventured after a few seconds of weighted silence, “what’re you doing here? Somehow, I can’t see either of you getting booted to Blood Gulch.” Carolina was too adept at everything she so much as dabbled in―schools often overlooked whatever bad behavior she showed to get her test scores on their record. And the big guy was way too intimidating; the Director probably wouldn’t have the stones to confront him.

Carolina gave him an odd look, setting her boxes down next to the rest. “We’re just helping out a friend. He should be coming up soon.” She frowned contemplatively. “It’s an odd coincidence that you’re his roommate, though.” At this, she winced, realization dawning across her face. “Weird request, but don’t mention Alpha to him, okay?”

“Psh, I wouldn’t talk about Alpha with someone I don’t even know. Hell, I dunno ‘bout you, but I wouldn’t talk about him with someone I _do_ know.”

For a lot of reasons.

“Speaking of people I don’t know,” he hastily added before she could say anything, “so you’re friends with this ‘David’ guy...?” It was impossible to miss the way he trailed off meaningfully.

A sort of fond smirk twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t worry, Tucker. Wash is a total dork. You two will get along great.” Ignoring his offended “Hey!”, she gestured to the big guy beside her. “This is Maine, by the way. Maine, this is Tucker. He’s a family friend.” Her smirk widened as she shook her head. “You three used to get into so much troub―”

_Shit._

He saw the danger only seconds before it happened. The pleasant atmosphere died rather suddenly as shock and concern flashed across Carolina’s face. She schooled her expression. “Tucker… you… _did_ hear about Epsi―”

“Yes,” he interrupted quickly, all too aware that Church was probably listening in. “Yeah, I heard.” Pure, unbridled asshole though he was, Church did not deserve to be reminded of that again, no matter how much he claimed not to care.

Sighing deeply, Carolina reached up to smooth back her hair, suddenly looking rather exhausted. “Okay.” After a moment, she nodded briskly, containing her clear display of emotion. “Okay. Yeah.” Forcing a smile, she untangled her fingers from her hair. “That’s good. I would hate for you to hear it at a bad time.”

Tucker struggled to contain a mad laugh. “Yeah. Hate to hear it at a bad time,” he said, trying his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and almost succeeding. Carolina’s brow furrowed in worry, but he just gave her a tight-lipped smile and swiftly changed the subject. “So, you said the guy should be here soon?”

Taking the hint, Carolina nodded. “Yeah. Actually―” She checked her watch. “―we should get going right about now.” Absently, she reached over to ruffle Tucker’s hair, ignoring his huff of protest as he brushed her hand away. “Gotta tell Wash the coast is clear.”

That the coast was clear?

Oh.

Tucker swallowed thickly.

_Oh._

No, yeah, they were here as scouts. It made total sense and was completely non-indicative of his roommate’s personality or police records. Because they totally hadn’t been scanning for cops. His roommate was not a fugitive; Tucker would have done the same thing if he actually had friends who would be willing. Not suspicious in any way.

Carolina wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t tell him that “Wash” was harmless if he was really a psychopathic murderer. She wouldn’t set him up like that. Would she?

Tucker gripped his dreads in both hands.

_Shit. She totally would._

He was only vaguely aware of Carolina muttering, “O… kay… we’ll let ourselves out, I guess.” Only when the doorknob jiggled uselessly did he snap out of it.

“It’s a picky door,” he interjected as Maine pulled on the knob without success. “Here.” Cutting in front of them both, he gingerly grabbed the knob, pushed it forward into the door, wiggled it a bit, and then heaved with all his might. With a loud noise, it swung open, revealing the hallway outside.

He could never tell what it was that made him step out into the hallway. Maybe it was habit; he didn’t generally open the door unless he was leaving or letting someone else in. Maybe it was some sort of premonition that he had as to his terrible fate. Maybe it was just sheer dumb luck.  After all, it wasn’t like there was any reason for him to step into the hallway before Carolina.

There was a certain limit to how much the universe hated him, right? As bad as his luck tended to be, Fate wouldn’t dare deliver such a colossal kick in the balls as to have Sister waiting outside his door, Junior in her arms, right?

Ha ha ha.

Fuck his life.

Because, sure enough, there she was, flippantly holding his son upside down by his ankle. She was halfway across the hallway, and she brightened when he stepped out to meet her. “Hey, dude, you ready for your dog back ye―?”

Tucker felt like he was moving in slow motion as he charged towards her, eyes wide, feet fumbling. He crashed into her with all the force of a monster truck; luckily, Sister being Sister, she barely swayed and her grip on his kid remained firm. Clamping one hand over her mouth, he snatched the infant from her and practically screamed, **“YES, KAIKAINA, I CAN WATCH YOUR KID FOR A WHILE, WHEN WILL YOU BE BACK TO PICK HIM UP?”**

Carolina flinched herself into the doorway, pressing her palms against her ears. “Tucker,” she groaned when he’d calmed down a bit, “I’m aware that you’re a nervous yeller, so I’ll spare you the broken kneecaps this time, but _please_ watch your volume.” Maine, not looking quite so charitable, stepped forward threateningly with a growl, but Carolina held out her arm to stop him and he reluctantly drew back. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, glancing at Sister in all her glory.

Tucker swallowed thickly, releasing Sister’s mouth but giving her a warning look that he could only hope she’d pick up on. “This is Kai. Everyone calls her Sister. Kai, this is Carolina. She’s an old friend.” As an afterthought, he added, “And that’s her friend Maine.”

“Nice to meet you,” Carolina offered semi-genuinely. Tucker’s heart leaped into his throat as she skirted around Sister and made straight for the baby, inspecting him closely. Sure, his kid was dark-skinned, but Tucker’s skin was much darker, and Sister’s skin was only a bit lighter than Junior’s, so it was totally believable, right? _Right?!_

“What’s his name?”

He resisted the urge to jump seven feet in the air. Barely. Fortunately, as he panicked like an idiot, Sister just smiled broadly and replied, “Junior! Well, he’s named after his dad, but we just call him Junior.” While Carolina was distracted by Junior reaching up to grab at her ponytail, she turned and gave Tucker an exaggerated wink. “But keep this on the down-low, okay? I mean, who wants to be known as the girl who gave birth to a dog, you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” Carolina agreed with an understanding nod. Then Sister’s words sunk in. “Wait, what?”

Tucker pressed his palm against his forehead. Things had been going so well. _Off all the times for her to start with that bullshit again…_ “Sister, how many times do I have to tell you, my―” He choked on air. “― _your_ kid is not a dog!”

Sister glanced surreptitiously at the baby in his arms. “You sure, man? Looks a lot like a dog to me.”

As they bickered lightly, Carolina stifled a chuckle, removing her hair from Junior’s grip. “Well, we actually _do_ have to get going,” she said, straightening up. Without further prompting, Maine hurried by, putting as much distance between him and the baby as possible. This time, her chuckle was a full-on laugh. “Keep in touch this time,” she added as she clapped him on the shoulder on the way out.

Her foot came to rest at the top of the stairs, and she paused. Hesitation was rare in the Church family, so Tucker immediately snapped to attention, ready to ask if there were zombies coming up the stairs. She sighed heavily.

“Take care of yourself, okay?”

She turned to smile affectionately over her shoulder.

“Otherwise, I’m gonna run fresh out of little brothers.”

A heavy lump of guilt formed in his throat, and he just thanked God that he could blame his sudden mood swings on Epsilon’s death. “Sure thing, ‘Lina,” he promised. She looked more relieved than he’d ever seen her in his life, and it took every last ounce of his restraint not to run and get Church right now; drag him out here and reunite them. Oblivious to the heavy atmosphere, Junior gurgled happily, waving his arms. Also oblivious to the heavy atmosphere, Sister cooed at him and pet his head.

Carolina disappeared down the stairs and Sister turned to him with a grin. “Oh, I _so_ need to hear the story behind this.”

Tucker rolled his eyes, appreciating the subject change much more than he let on. “Later. Can you take Junior back for a while longer? I just need him out of the way when my new roomie gets here, just in case.”

Sister smiled brightly. “Nope!” she chirped. “Dick invited Dex and I to family fuck night with his parents! I gotta get changed and hit the road!”

“...I think you mean family fun night.”

“Naw, I definitely think it was family fuck night.”

“Okay, whatever. Is Donut…?”

“Out shopping with Doc.”

“Dammit.” Tucker rubbed his temples. Usually, he would just get Church to take care of Junior if he had something else to do, but now that also meant letting Caboose get within five meters of an infant, and that was considered negligent homicide in most states. He closed his eyes. _Dammit._

All he wanted was for his son to be safely out of the way in case he was shacked up with a murderer. Was that really too much to ask?

Apparently.

“Fine,” he groaned, bouncing Junior absently in his arms. Junior shrieked happily, and his mood brightened a bit despite himself as he smiled down at his son. “Go to your stupid-ass ‘family fun night’ shit. But if this guy turns out to be a nutjob and hurts my son, you’re paying for the medical bills.”

“Your roomie’s or your dog’s?”

“He’s not my dog!”

Sister snorted. “Whatever, dude. I gotta go change.” And with that, she strolled away with her usual swagger, already undoing the buttons on her shirt before she even got to her door.

Sighing heavily, he stepped back into Room 5B2, cradling his son protectively in his arms. Church had come out of hiding and retrieved his luggage stashed behind the couch, continuing to cram his various belongings inside. Tucker considered making one last desperate plea for Church to just hold on for a day so that Junior didn’t have to be here when the new guy came in, but a sidelong glare shut him up. Another sigh.

Today was off to a fucking amazing start.

* * *

 

Wash’s first impression of his new home was that it made no goddamn sense.

Granted, that was a relatively safe thing to assume of anything that came from the Director, but there were weird school rules and nonsensical building plans, and then there was this.

Blood Gulch Remedial School had two parts: a tall building that looked like a shitty apartment complex where the students resided and an actual campus, which just looked like a regular brick high school. Sure, yeah. That made sense. What made distinctly less sense was the interior of the student dorms, which was divided into two sections: Red Dorm and Blue Dorm.

Everything in the dorms was doubled; one on the blue side, one on the red side. The first floor, which was a sort of lobby and couldn’t be replicated, had a large line painted sloppily down the middle―the right side was for Blues, and the left side was for Reds.

At first, he’d thought that dorms were arranged by gender―which, although not a _good_ idea, was at least somewhat rational. That idea had been blown out of the water when, immediately upon walking into the lobby, he witnessed a violent tussle between two boys who looked no older than freshman, one of whom kept saying “Better dead than Red!” while the other spat out “dirty Blue” at least every five seconds. He immediately wished he hadn’t told Carolina and Maine that they could leave, even if they had assured him that the halls were pretty much empty and his roommate was an old friend of the Churches’.

Nonetheless, he had to admit, his move was seeming rather uneventful. Skirting around the many skirmishes he came across, he managed to get to the stairs without incident, and, although he longed for an elevator, climbing stairs with his cane wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. According to the key he’d been given, he was on the fifth floor in Room 2 on the Blue side, so, gritting his teeth, he started the trek up four flights of stairs, more grateful than ever for his friends’ insistence upon bringing his boxes up ahead of time.

One flight of stairs. He emerged onto the second floor, sweating but determined, to find that Blue Dorm was aptly named. The walls were painted a dingy cornflower blue, and each door was either a garish ultramarine or a surprisingly tasteful indigo. The carpet was purple, probably so that they didn’t have to change the carpet between Red and Blue dorms. He rolled his eyes and stepped into the next stairwell.

Two flights of stairs. He stopped to catch his breath as soon as he hit the third floor, leaning heavily against the wall. When he stood back up, his sleeve and arm were covered in blue paint dust. He took a moment to think about how many health code violations that must be, then quickly banished the thought and hastened back onto the stairs.

Three flights. Halfway up, he stumbled, barely catching himself before he could hit the steps. Swallowing thickly, he took full advantage of the opportunity and rested for a minute before pushing himself back onto his feet. His cane clicked loudly against the hardwood stairs and gave a muffled _thump_ when he finally reached the threadbare carpet of the fourth floor.

The final stretch. His jaw clenched as the ache in his leg became an urgent, throbbing pain that shot through his bones every time he put even the slightest amount of weight on it. A girl in very stylish clothing passed him on the other side of the stairs, and he averted his eyes, trying his best not to look like he needed help. Just half a flight to go; he was almost there…

His cane slipped against a puddle, jamming itself into the corner of the next stair and jerking itself out of his hand. All of his weight slammed into his bad leg, and he shouted in pain, his good leg scrabbling for traction―no avail. Balance lost, he tumbled backwards and immediately threw his arms around his head, pulling his burning leg to his chest to protect it from further harm―

Casually, the girl he’d passed reached out a single arm and caught him before he could hit the ground. The small amount of breath still in his lungs whooshed out, and he wheezed. It didn’t help that he was immediately lugged over the stranger’s shoulder like a duffel bag, pressing his chest in.

By the time he’d caught his breath, the girl was flipping him upright and setting him back on his feet―on the fifth floor. He immediately leaned against the wall, shaking as adrenalin belatedly spiked through him. “Wow, Church was right,” his unlikely savior said offhandedly, brushing some dirt off of her shoulder. “You _do_ weigh, like, two pounds.”

In fact, Wash was taller than average and weighed a fair amount―he and Maine did work out together most days―but he wasn’t about to complain that a random stranger could lift him easily with one arm. “Th… thanks. For that,” he huffed, still breathing heavily.

“Hey, no problem, dude.” She flashed an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I mean, I didn’t join the circus for nothing!”

“Y… yeah.” After a brief pause, he did a double-take. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted, “that strongman gig was awesome. But, hey, I ain’t complaining to much. Bein’ a dancer’s just more _me,_ y’know?” Finally, she actually looked at Wash, and seemed to realize that she didn’t know him. “Who are you, by the way?”

Wash blinked, then took a good look at her. She was short and wide, but clearly she was packing mostly muscle, not fat. Her dark brown hair had streaks dyed yellow, and she was wearing the sort of clothes you wear when you’re going to pick someone up at the nearest bar. Feeling rather like he could ask her the same question, Wash nonetheless straightened, still letting the wall support him, and muttered, “David Washington. People call me Wash.”

The voluptuous brunette gave Wash a surprisingly discerning look up and down. “So you’re the guy who killed the other guy?” she asked bluntly. Wash flinched and opened his mouth to respond, but never got the chance. “You don’t look it. Well, I guess if you, like, got behind him and choked him―” Another disparaging glance. “―Actually, nah. You didn’t do it, I bet. Just got framed.” She nodded decisively. “Sucks. Well, don’t feel bad, everybody’s gotten locked in the looney bin at least once. You got it better than me. Who wants to be known as the chick who got pregnant in a straightjacket, y’know?”

Getting more and more lost by the second, Wash just dumbly opened and closed his mouth, staring at her like he couldn’t comprehend her existence―which wasn’t too far off, to be honest. “...Um?”

Suddenly, a hungry light entered her eyes and she leaned forward excitedly. “ _You_ aren’t pregnant, are you?” She grinned, near maniacal. “That’d be some juicy-ass shit.”

That, at least, broke him out of his stupor. “I… what? No.”

“Oh.” If anything, she looked disappointed to have lost her big scoop. “Well, anyway, welcome to Blue Dorm. I’m Kai. Come over to my club sometime and we’ll rave.” And then she was gone, strutting down the stairs without another word. Wash stared blankly at the now-vacant doorway overlooking the stairwell, jaw still slightly unhinged, wondering rather seriously what the chances were that he had completely lost his mind between the first flight of stairs and the fourth. He ran over everything again in his head. Nothing stood out as surreal except for the past sixty seconds, but that could just be because his mind was so scrambled, everything seemed normal even though it was really illogical.

“Hey, Wash!” Kai called, and he jerked back into reality. He looked down at her just in time to see his cane spiraling towards him. Throwing up his arms frantically, he just managed to catch it before it could slam right into his face. For a moment, he just stared at it blankly.

Oh. Right. He’d forgotten, for a moment, why he’d fallen in the first place. The humiliation of the situation finally caught up with him, and he went a bright red. Glancing down the stairwell, he opened his mouth to thank her and apologize for the trouble.

She had already vanished.

Sighing heavily, he gripped his cane and leaned back on it, releasing the wall. It helped more than he wanted to admit.

The numbers on the doors that lined both sides of the narrow hallway didn’t take too long to decipher, although they made about as much sense as the rest of this place. The labels seemed to indicate, in order, floor number, color, and room number. There weren’t too many doors, and it didn’t take him long to find the one labelled 5B2.

In a way, he wished the task hadn’t been so effortless. He would’ve felt better wandering around searching for the room while he got his head on straight. Hovering awkwardly outside, his hand poised to knock as he started absently at the chipped cerulean paint, he felt his nerves only intensify. What if his roommate was a criminal? What if the Director roomed them together because both were suspected murderers? What if the Director roomed them together in an attempt to get back at him? What if…?

 _‘Couldn’t be any worse than Epsilon,’_ his brain muttered at him.

Wash took a deep breath. It seemed like the panic from the asylum would never fade. _‘Carolina says he’s fine,’_ he reminded himself. _‘Besides, if you can hold your own against Maine for a few minutes, you can take whatever this guy throws at you.’_

Heartened, if still anxious, Wash gripped his pocket tightly with one hand while the other rapped sharply on the door.

For a moment, there was utter silence. Then, faintly, he could hear voices arguing from within the dorm. Shifting awkwardly, he waited for the problem to get sorted out, whatever it was. What must have been a full minute ticked by, and the voices slowly faded down, leaving him again in silence. Still, no one answered the door.

Wash bit his lip. Maybe they hadn’t heard him? Against his better judgement, he raised his fist and knocked again.

“One _second_ , hold your tits.”

He froze.

 _“Alright, one second! Jeez, I’m coming! Right after I beat this level. Oh, suck a cock, Wash. Ugh, fine. One minute! Wash, oh my god, just let me finish this level! Fine, I’ll be there. Shit, I guess I missed it. Oh well. Look, I’m sorry, okay? Wash? I'm sorry. Wash, I’m really sorry, please don’t be mad, fuck, I’m_ _sorry_ ― _”_

The door swung open to reveal a boy about his age, no taller than his nose. Spiky black hair and uneven stubble made him look like a mix between an exhausted businessman and a rebellious teenager, and his glasses frames weren’t quite thick enough to hide the heavy bags under his eyes.

His hoodie was pale blue.

Wash was falling. No, drowning. His stomach flipped and tears stung his eyes as his entire body went weak and numb. With a soft _fwump,_ his cane fell from his hand and hit the carpet.

“Epsilon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me, please?  
> Pretty please?  
> Anyway, finals week is this week, but afterwards it'll be SUMMER! and I might be able to update more often maybe possibly hopefully.

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is a thing. ...That I'm apparently doing.  
> Just a little warning: I'm still not 100% on exactly everything that's going to happen in the story, so plot points may be added or removed, which means tags might change.  
> Also, uh... I may or may not be Tuckington trash.


End file.
